


First Words and Christmas Kisses

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Flying, Holidays, Kid Fic, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might be Christmas Eve, but Marcus has one thing on his mind: flying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Words and Christmas Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> This is a holiday gift ficlet for subdued, who created this version of Montague. As always, JK Rowling owns the world and the characters of Harry Potter; I just like to play with them.

It might be Christmas Eve, but Marcus has one thing on his mind: flying. The triplets will be ten months old in just two more days, and he hasn’t had a chance to take any of them up in the air. Part of that is their mum being worried, and part of that has been him wondering if maybe she’s right and he’d be a poor dad to do it.

But right now, it’s all he can think of, even if it takes some effort to wrangle all three of them into cold weather gear that makes their tiny arms and legs stick out like knitted dolls. Grey’s just barely starting to think about walking, but with this much gear and the dusting of snow on the ground, Marc isn’t going to let him try. Instead he floats a wagon along behind him with all three of them in it, the spell holding them so they can’t pull themselves over the edges and tumble out.

Isolde prefers that the wagon stay on the ground; Marc always has it in the air. These are his kids, and they’re going to fly someday. Lil, especially, seems to like it, chubby mittened hands thrown in the air as she cheers wordlessly.

It occurs to Marc that someday soon they’re going to talk, more than mamamama and dadadadada and babababa which he isn’t sure count as words so much as demanding syllables that seem to get them things when said loudly and with enough emphasis.

He snorts. He’s one to talk. Anything said loudly and with enough emphasis works for communication sometimes. He ought to know that more than anyone; Isolde’s learned to interpret his grunts over the years about as well as she’s learned how to figure out what their babies want.

He lets them spill into the warmth of the barn, crawling or in Grey’s case standing with the wagon gripped tightly in one hand as he wobbles on two feet. Ten months old is a bit young for walking, Isolde says, but Marc can see that determination in his youngest’s eyes. He’s ready to go and he won’t let anything stand in his way.

“Got something planned?”

Marcus hears the crunch of footsteps, Isaac calling out. He has his own son on his hip. Well, Lavender’s son, but might as well be Isaac’s, and the poor boy never is called by his own name either. Cerulean Brown, and with the triplets hearing it, he’ll likely go to Hogwarts being called the same damned thing. Never live it down.

A small smile tugs at Marc’s lips. Stupid reaction to seeing Isaac, but it’s always there, since they’ve healed this thing they have between them. All of them, this one ridiculous strange complicated family, but it’s Marc’s, and if he thinks about it, he might have to admit that he loves it. Fucking Isaac, it’s all his fucking fault for making Marc love _him_.

Still. It isn’t bad. He’s got two brilliant sparring partners, one regular fuck, one complicated occasional fuck, and one best friend who listens to every bloody thing he has to say about the other two. Not to mention four children, and his mum’s finally moved out of the Manor.

He likes his life. But he’ll still growl for show, so he does with a shrug. “Going to take the wee beans up in the air for a Christmas flight, I’m thinking.”

Isaac casts, creating a play area that they can deposit the four children into. Cerulean’s already walking, and Grey watches him with avid eyes. “Isolde might be upset,” Isaac points out. But when he summons the brooms, he summons both, handing Marc’s to him while shouldering his own. “Cal and Cerulean first?”

Marcus grins. “Lavender won’t be thrilled either.” The two set about getting the boys strapped in carefully so that there’s no risk of them falling off a broom. Marcus remembers going up on a broom long ago much like this, although it’s so dim he has to wonder if it ever occurred at all. This moment of closeness with his father. He can’t remember it any time later, but then, flying was the only fucking thing his father ever approved of that Marcus did.

They check to make sure Lil and Grey are settled, then take to the air. Marcus can’t look over much except to see the fond look in Isaac’s eyes and the delight on his son’s face. Cal isn’t as happy about it, his little fingers curled into mittened fists, eyes wide. But he doesn’t cry, and Marcus murmurs to him as he skims the ground, just a bit higher than the wagon usually goes. “Someday you’ll love this, wee bean,” he whispers, pressing a kiss the child can’t feel through his hat.

Lillian is waiting at the edge of the play area when he lands, her arms thrust imperiously into the air. “Impatient, are you?” Marcus asks, laughing when she reaches for him as soon as Cal is back on the ground. “What makes you think you’re next?” He hitches her onto his hip, tucking a stray wispy curl under her hat.

“Cerulean loved it.” Isaac lands, cheeks red and windburned. Marc wants to kiss him then, to warm that skin, but this isn’t the time or place.

Instead, he snorts. “Don’t let Lav hear you call him that. She’s trying to get me to stop before the triplets start.”

“She’s going to lose this war.” Isaac shrugs easily as he settles his son, then gathers up Grey. “I think she lost it before he was born, when she let me nickname him.”

Marcus doesn’t think Lavender minds. She likes to argue, and he’s sure part of that is her and part of that is the growly wolf inside of her that loves confrontation. Which is one of the things he loves about her in return; she pushes and shoves and is utterly unlike any woman he has ever known. They fight all the time, and he adores her.

Isaac is in the air with Grey before Marcus manages to get off the ground. Grey is laughing, and Lillian points after him, her direction clear. If she could say it, Marcus knew he’d hear _fly, Daddy!_ And he knows he will never be able to resist her orders, either. She is his darling girl, and she knows it.

He kicks off, and for Lil he goes higher than he did before, adding in a twist. She trusts him, body curled back close, laughing as they dip and bob and sway on the broom. Her delight is evident in every movement, her small hands clapping together in woolen thuds.

When they land, she laughs, chortling loudly before clapping one more time and announcing, “Fuck!”

Marcus blinks. 

Isaac lets out a short bark of laughter. “Now Isolde’s definitely going to kill you.”

“Lil, that’s a daddy word.” Marcus can’t believe this is coming out of his mouth. “Fuck.” It slips out, under his breath, and he tries to ignore Isaac’s continued laughter. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to think his way through this. It’s just a word. Just one fucking word, and Lil keeps saying it cheerfully.

The four children are together in the magical playpen, and Lil entertains the other two with a steady stream of cursing, as if she’s telling a story. Marcus feels warmth behind him as Isaac’s arms slip around him, holding onto him.

“I think she thinks it’s a joyous word,” Isaac murmurs in Marcus’s ear. “It’s obviously one her daddy uses a lot.”

“I’m fucking well dead,” Marcus mutters. He turns then, his body caught in the circle of Isaac’s arms. This, this is where he wants to be. Where he _needs_ to be. Isaac is what he cannot resist.

It’s cold in the barn, and Marc can’t feel Isaac’s hair through the thick wool of his gloves. But he can feel the shape of his head, the nape of his neck as he grips him tightly, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that warms him from the inside out.

“Happy fucking Christmas,” he murmurs against Isaac’s lips, laughing when he’s silenced with another kiss.

“Fuck!”

“Isolde’s _definitely_ going to kill you.” Isaac smirks.

“Sod it.” Marc can’t glare at his daughter who chirps her new word _again_. She’s far too proud of herself, and he’s far too wrapped around her finger. “Bloody hell, Lil, can’t you pick a different first word?”

“Fuck,” she chirps, holding up her arms to be picked up. With a sigh, Marc hitches her onto his hip, holding her securely while she tugs at his scarf.

A hand catches him, turning his head, and it is Isaac’s turn to initiate the kiss. Long, slow, deep and hungry. If he didn’t have a kid in his arms (and three playing around his feet), Marc would be stripping them both.

Isaac smiles. “Later,” he says. “Besides, there’s always Christmas morning to look forward to.”

Marc snorts. “You’ve got Lavender for that. I’ll take my turn after, when she’s willing to give you up a bit.”

“You’ll get your turn.” Isaac’s hand is flat against his cheek, somehow warm despite having lost a glove somewhere. “Don’t worry about that.”

“M’not worried,” Marc says gruffly, turning his head away and catching Cal just in time before he crawls into the hay bales. He bends down, one child on each knee, fixing scarves and hats and mittens. “S’good Christmas,” he mutters. “S’nothing else I need for it. I’ve got you and Isolde and Lav and the kids. S’all good.”

He smiles then. “S’pretty fucking brilliant.”

He stands to find his other son in Isaac’s arms, Cerulean toddling along beside him. Together they all make their way back to the Manor, because Christmas is a time for family, and _this_ is Marc’s family. As odd as it seems, this is who they are, and who he wants them to be.


End file.
